Matrimonial Causes

by Peter Corris

  PETER CORRIS is known as the ‘godfather’ of Australian crime fiction through his Cliff Hardy detective stories. He has written in many other areas, including a co-authored autobiography of the late Professor Fred Hollows, a history of boxing in Australia, spy novels, historical novels and a collection of short stories about golf (see www.petercorris.net). In 2009, Peter Corris was awarded the Ned Kelly Award for Best Fiction by the Crime Writers Association of Australia. He is married to writer Jean Bedford and has lived in Sydney for most of his life. They have three daughters and six grandsons.

  The Cliff Hardy collection

  The Dying Trade (1980)

  White Meat (1981)

  The Marvellous Boy (1982)

  The Empty Beach (1983)

  Heroin Annie (1984)

  Make Me Rich (1985)

  The Big Drop (1985)

  Deal Me Out (1986)

  The Greenwich Apartments (1986)

  The January Zone (1987)

  Man in the Shadows (1988)

  O’Fear (1990)

  Wet Graves (1991)

  Aftershock (1991)

  Beware of the Dog (1992)

  Burn, and Other Stories (1993)

  Matrimonial Causes (1993)

  Casino (1994)

  The Washington Club (1997)

  Forget Me If You Can (1997)

  The Reward (1997)

  The Black Prince (1998)

  The Other Side of Sorrow (1999)

  Lugarno (2001)

  Salt and Blood (2002)

  Master’s Mates (2003)

  The Coast Road (2004)

  Taking Care of Business (2004)

  Saving Billie (2005)

  The Undertow (2006)

  Appeal Denied (2007)

  The Big Score (2007)

  Open File (2008)

  Deep Water (2009)

  Torn Apart (2010)

  Follow the Money (2011)

  Comeback (2012)

  The Dunbar Case (2013)

  Silent Kill (2014)

  PETER CORRIS

  MATRIMONIAL CAUSES

  This edition published by Allen & Unwin in 2014

  First published by Bantam Books, a division of Transworld Publishers, in 1993

  Copyright © Peter Corris 1993

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

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  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

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  ISBN 978 1 76011 018 5 (pbk)

  ISBN 978 1 74343 799 5 (ebook)

  For

  Roger Milliss

  a sharer in the pleasures of friendship

  and the joys and pains of golf

  1

  I sprinted hard on the coarse sand of Dudley beach, ignoring the camber, jumping over the rocks. I’d be sorry the next day when my ankles and knee joints would remind me of my age, but for now I had no choice—Glen Withers was beating me. Sure, I’d given her a start but that wasn’t the point. I could see the line we’d drawn in the sand looming up and she still had a lead. She was flagging, though; I was pulling her in. I threw myself forward, tripped, dived for the line and got my hand on it at the same time as her bare foot.

  ‘Draw,’ I gasped. I’d sprayed sand into my mouth and had to spit it out.

  Glen collapsed two metres past the line. Her chest was heaving. ‘That’s not fair. You were falling flat on your face.’

  I wriggled through the sand towards her. ‘Win at all costs. That’s the motto of the Hardys.’

  It was a bit past 8 p.m. on a summer night. The day had been hot and we’d had several swims, several drinks, made love and had an afternoon sleep. Glen’s house was a ten-minute walk away on the rise overlooking the ocean. There was a prawn salad in the fridge as well as several bottles of Jacob’s Creek chablis. We were on holidays—me from my private enquiry agency in Sydney, her from teaching at the Police Academy. Our second summer together and still laughing at each other’s jokes. Pretty close to paradise.

  We splashed about for a while as the last few people left the beach. Glen wasn’t the swimmer she had been. A bullet had left her arm a bit stiff. She got the wound at the time when we first met, back when a case had brought me to Newcastle and Senior Sergeant Glen Withers’ father, who was a high-ranking policeman, had been killed. We enjoyed more than the usual number of bonds—an acquaintance with violence, a distrust of authority and, oddly, the suspicion that relationships couldn’t last. We also showed each other our wounds, competed fiercely on occasions, and liked old black and white movies.

  We walked up the hill and went into Glen’s house, one of a set of mine managers’ cottages on Burwood Road. The houses are big and simple and perfect just the way they are, but some of the other owners are going mad with trellises and decks. One has even built a swimming pool, which strikes me as an obscenity so close to the ocean. There ought to be a law. The sandstone house was cool and quiet.

  We showered and shared the preparation of the meal, which is to say that I cut the bread and opened the wine. It was good food.

  Sneakily, I admired Glen while we ate. She is medium tall with no-nonsense features, all excellently proportioned, and a fine head of thick brown hair. Her hair had got fairer in the ten days we’d been up here. She tans but is careful about it and critical of my carelessness. I had an Irish gypsy grandmother whose skin had the colour and texture of a well-kicked football. I’m a bit the same and go very dark in the summer if I get any beach time. The recession was still with us—beach time wasn’t a problem. Bill-paying was, but a man with a woman who has a house on the coast shouldn’t ask for much more.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Glen asked.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘As if you’re still hungry and thirsty.’

  I laughed. Through the open French windows, an acceptable modification of Glen’s, I could hear the neighbours playing in their pool. There were loud splashes and laughter. Perhaps a pool wasn’t such a bad idea. I put the heretical notion aside—I was getting up early and walking briskly to Whitebridge for the paper and then to the beach and back every morning. A very sound constitutional. Wandering out to swim a few laps of the pool wouldn’t keep the flab down. I made coffee and, after dabbing on the insect repellent, we sat out in the backyard to drink it. The waves slapped on the beach and the night wind whispered in the tall casuarinas.

  ‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘This is good.’

  Glen murmured something I didn’t catch. We were sitting side by side in deck chairs. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I said you make bloody strong coffee. This is going to keep me awake all night.’

  ‘Don’t drink it then. I’ll dilute it if you like.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. We’ve only got two more days. We ought to stretch them. Stay up all night.’

  I was wakeful, too. The afternoon sleep had been a long one and I’d only had a couple of glasses of wine. She was righ
t. The coffee was strong and it tasted so good I wanted more of it. Glen massaged her arm. I moved my chair closer and took over the job, rubbing down the muscle towards the elbow the way she liked.

  ‘How is it?’

  ‘Aches a bit. That’s nice. Good holiday, eh?’

  ‘Terrific.’

  ‘Did you have any good holidays with Cyn?’

  I tried to remember. I’d been married to Cyn for eight years. We must have had some holidays, but I couldn’t recall any. No recession back then—maybe we’d been too busy detecting and architecting. I shook my head. ‘None come to mind.’

  ‘With Helen Broadway?’

  More recent history—a battlefield, essentially. ‘If you can call Hastings a holiday, or Agincourt or Dien Bien Phu. I went to New Caledonia with a woman once. We had a pretty good time.’

  ‘And where’s she now?’

  Ailsa Sleeman. ‘She died of cancer a few years back.’

  ‘Did you love her?’

  ‘Glen, what is this?’

  ‘I feel like talking. No, I feel like listening. How long have you been a private detective, Cliff?’

  ‘’Bout twenty years.’

  ‘Gee, I was still at school when you started.’

  ‘Yeah, in Year Twelve.’

  Glen laughed. ‘Not quite. Tell me about your first case. You must remember it.’

  ‘Sure, but Christ, I haven’t thought of that in a long, long time.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘Back then? Divorce—what else? But there was a bit of perjury, fraud and murder as well.’

  2

  Alistair Menzies, I was told, claimed some sort of kinship with the former prime minister, and there was a physical resemblance to back the claim. He had the same height and ponderous build and he wore the same kind of double-breasted suits. But his hair wasn’t as white and thick as old Bob’s nor his eyebrows as dark and dramatic, even though he apparently did all he could to get them that way. He was fiftyish and smoked thick cigars. He was a solicitor and he gave me my first job because someone told him I was fairly bright and inclined to be honest.

  ‘This will require some tact, Hardy,’ he said.

  Which you prefer to hire rather than exercise yourself, I thought. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m going to have to call you something other than “Mr Menzies”. You understand why, don’t you?’

  The bushy eyebrows moved but not with much dramatic effect—framing more of a puzzled frown than an imperious stare. ‘No, but I was warned you were impudent. I suggest you avoid calling me anything. Take care to avoid “mate”—I detest false egalitarianism.’

  As an opening spar, that made us about equal. I was sitting in one of his leather chairs in his Martin Place office. He had the work to hand out and I welcomed it. I’d been ‘in business’ for a few weeks now but there hadn’t yet been a cent to deposit in the Cliff Hardy business account. I assumed a neutral expression while he took a puff on his cigar. ‘As I say, tact needed. You are familiar with the provisions of the Commonwealth Matrimonial Causes Act of 1959?’

  ‘As amended in 1965,’ I said.

  ‘Quite. This is a divorce case. Our client, Mrs Beatrice Meadowbank, is suing her husband, Charles. She requires evidence of adultery.’

  ‘If memory serves,’ I said, ‘she requires a fair bit of evidence—multiple occasions, consistent indulgence, frequent occurrence.’

  ‘Are you married, Hardy?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tenuously, I could have added. Cyn and I disagreed about almost everything and fought all the time. We were incompatible but, in our many separations, inconsolable. Neither of us knew what to do about it. My main stratagem was to drink too much; Cyn’s was to work too hard as a junior member of a very forward-looking Balmain architecture firm.

  ‘Good, you’ll be aware of some of the pressures. Mrs Meadowbank has reached breaking point. Her husband is carrying on an affair with a younger woman. Not the first such indiscretion on his part, we might say. We want Charles Meadowbank followed and photographed. You will make a sworn affidavit logging his movements and stand ready to give evidence in court.’

  What was called in the trade a ‘Brownie and bedsheets’ job. I knew they were part of the deal even if I’d hoped to kick off with something more savoury—like bodyguarding Shirley Bassey or helping Frank Packer get his winnings home safely from Randwick. I took out a notebook and wrote down the details—description of Meadowbank, home and business addresses, make and model of car, club memberships. A phone call interrupted Menzies’ flow and I took the opportunity to fish out the makings and roll a cigarette. His cigar, placed in a heavy cut glass ashtray, died. Menzies’ pale blue eyes, somewhat buried in the flesh that comes from good living, watched my movements with distaste.

  He hung up after grunting into the phone a few times, in a well-bred way. ‘That’s nasty,’ he said.

  I exhaled a cloud of Drum. ‘Smoking? I agree. I plan to give it up when I turn thirty-five. I can’t understand why you still do it at your age.’

  Colour flooded his pale, indoors complexion. ‘I am beginning to regret acting on this recommendation.’

  I stood up. I like to be on my feet when I’m being submissive. It doesn’t feel quite as bad. ‘I can do the job,’ I said. ‘Three assignations should be enough, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll talk to your secretary about my cheque. See you in court.’

  ‘I trust not.’

  I stopped short of the door. ‘So it’s a bluff? She wants to lead him by the balls to your gentle negotiating table?’

  The cigar, re-lit, was waved imperiously. ‘You have your instructions, Mister Hardy.’

  All square. Two sets each. Fifty up and both on the black. I renewed my acquaintance with the queen of the outer office, a severe-suited dragon named Mrs Collins. I signed something I didn’t read and got a cheque for $150—a retainer against my fees of $40 a day, expenses sheet to be submitted on conclusion of commission. Wealth! Prospects! I walked out into a sunny Martin Place and took off my tie. I loosened the top shirt button and opened the suit jacket. Lightweight suit, my one and only. I rolled up the tie and stuffed it in my pocket. I don’t know why, but I’ve always associated neckties with nooses. Comes of watching too many matinee westerns at the Maroubra Odeon, maybe.

  As I strolled among the lunchtime crowd, employed myself, a semi-professional like a lot of them, I reflected on the chain of events that had got me to this point. After a stint in the army I’d gone into insurance investigation. I met Cyn when I came to sniff around about a fire that had almost destroyed her Glebe studio. I reported that the fire was entirely accidental and that the claim should be paid in full. I’d have said the same if I’d found kerosene tins and wood shavings in every room. Cynthia Lee bowled me over and we went to bed on our second meeting and were married a few months later.

  Cut to our first infidelities, both guilty, and within a year. Apologies, forgiveness, recommitment and more of the same. She was battling to finish her architecture degree, having made a late start after flirting with the alternative lifestyle in a northern rainforest. I supported her. She qualified. I expected gratitude. She plunged into her highly paid, prestigious work. I tired of the office hours and routines and had made the break into private practice just a few weeks back. Cyn’s political principles—or a version of them—suddenly resurfaced and I became a bourgeois individualist, propping up the authoritarian state.

  I went into the first pub I found that offered a counter lunch. You can’t pry into people’s sex lives on an empty stomach. You need something to throw up.

  Lunch started late and went on a bit long. I like to watch people in pubs, listen to them, and it’s thirsty work. What with the need to lodge Menzies’ cheque, buy film for the Asahi Pentax, get the Falcon fuelled up and one thing and another, I barely had time for a quick call to Cyn to tell her that I didn’t know when I’d be home.

  ‘Where are you? The pub?’
>
  ‘At the garage buying petrol and oil. D’you realise they still give you the air and water for free? It can’t last. I may have to drive around a bit tonight.’

  ‘I knew it,’ she said.

  ‘Knew what?’ I was genuinely puzzled. I often found Cyn’s remarks cryptic. What did she know?

  ‘That you went into this ridiculous business so you could spend more time away from me.’

  I was flabbergasted. She started earlier and worked longer than any union would ever allow. ‘You’re wrong, love,’ I said. ‘I’m doing it because it might be fun.’

  She laughed, and Cyn’s laugh was a better sound than the cork coming out of a bottle or the rustle of money or a wave on a beach. ‘Okay, Cliff. Have fun. See you when you get back. Is what you’re doing dangerous?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘Take care just the same. ’Bye.’

  And that’s the way it was with us. Right hooks and kisses. I wanted to go straight to her office, rush her home and undress her and declare my undying love. Instead, I drove to my office to pick up the camera and make some notes on the Menzies/Meadowbank assignment, the way the Commercial Agents and Private Enquiry Agents Act of 1963 requires you to do.

  The office was in a building in St Peters Lane, Darlinghurst, a bit back from William Street, a bit down from Kings Cross. I’d taken out a six-month lease a week before. I was two floors up with a desk, a phone, a chair, a filing cabinet and one dirty window. Other than that, there’s nothing more to say about the place except that it was cheap. No, there is more to say. I figured it was good territory—anyone street-wise and tough entering there wouldn’t turn a hair. Anyone pretending to be those things would turn plenty of hairs. And I wasn’t expecting too many blondes in Dior dresses. I anticipated that most of my business would come to me over the telephone. So far, I’d been one hundred per cent right.

  Mrs M was away for the week and Mr M was expected to play up. I collected him in Surry Hills. He ran a finance company named Meadowbank Credit and he wasn’t hard to spot coming out of the car park—big grey Mercedes, arrogant tilt to the head as he waited for the traffic, brusque, impatient driving style. I followed him to his flat in Bellevue Hill—Birriga Road, as you’d expect, overlooking Bellevue Park. Medium-sized block in a garden setting with terrific views, ample car parking and tight security. The Merc sailed into harbour and I settled down to roll a supply of cigarettes and perfect the most essential part of the private detective’s trade—waiting and not falling asleep.